


Five Times Clint Had To Explain (And One Time He Didn’t)

by Selenay



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Blame Fahre, Clothes Porn, Glitter, Humor, M/M, Romance, no glitter was harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've got glitter in places that glitter should never be."<br/>"Thank you for that image," Phil said dryly. "You were going to explain why you're dressed like...well..."<br/>"A ten dollar whore?" Clint supplied helpfully.<br/>"I was going to go with classy hooker, but whatever you feel most comfortable identifying with," Phil said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. That time with the strip club and the glitter

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no idea where this fic came from, but I blame Fahre for at least part of it because she cheered me on and muttered inspirational things (like collars) rather than reining me in when I asked "is eye-liner too much for Thing 1?"

"I can explain."

That was never a good start to any conversation, Phil had found over the years. Under the pale glow of the streetlight above them it was difficult to make out details, but Clint appeared to be wearing a pair of tight black pants, motorcycle boots, a liberal amount glitter and nothing much else.

It should have been ridiculous.

It was actually hot.

It was absolutely nowhere in the mission plan.

"Really?" Phil said. "Is this the kind of explanation that I'll want to hear?"

"Probably," Clint said, "but right now, we kind of need to run."

The sound of shouting and heavy footsteps followed them down the street down the street as they searched for somewhere to hide. Phil had no chance to get his cell out to call for help and this had been a simple observation mission so there were no comm links back to SHIELD HQ other than the cell phones. He stayed slightly behind Clint, knowing that the other man was more likely to see a place to hide and did not appear to have a gun with him. There was absolutely nowhere that a gun could be concealed in that outfit.

Clint veered left into an alley, Phil followed and skidded to a stop in time to watch Clint leap up and haul himself, muscles rippling across his back, onto a fire escape. It was a stunning display of pure strength, matched only when Clint reached down for Phil's arm and dragged him up as well. They waited, breathing hard, and watched the entrance to alley.

A moment later three large men ran past. Clint shifted as if to move and Phil placed a hand on his bare shoulder to stop him. After a couple of minutes a black sedan car drove past. When there had been no more movement in the street beyond for several minutes, Phil relaxed and gestured to the ground. Clint went first, landing lightly and grinning up at him with arms open to catch. Phil just rolled his eyes and dropped from the fire escape next to him in his best "I did not grow up in a circus so I can do this without theatrics" style.

They stayed in the alley while Phil made a brief call on his cell. Although the call was short, Phil could see that the chill of the night air on Clint's bare skin was raising goosebumps.

"Where to, boss?" Clint asked softly.

"Extraction in three hours," Phil said. "We'll need to take cover somewhere but the safe house is out if Natasha is still in play."

"Natalia the waitress is serving drinks as we speak," Clint said, "but I may know somewhere."

It was a couple of blocks away, a hotel that charged by the hour, and Clint's outfit was actually a bonus there judging by the wink and leer that the guy at the desk gave them. The room was shabby, poorly decorated and Phil was thankful that there would be no need to sleep there because the sheets looked foul.

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead allowed Phil his first proper look at Clint. Glitter had been applied liberally across his chest and shoulders, tapering down his stomach towards the waistband of the tight black pants, and Clint's eyes were outlined in heavy, expertly-applied eyeliner.

Phil had to swallow as his mouth went unusually dry.

"So," Phil said.

"I need a shower," Clint said. "This stuff fucking itches."

"Right," Phil said.

He tried not to watch as Clint headed towards the bathroom, the tight pants hugging his ass just right. He absolutely failed.

***

Phil was starting to get concerned about potential drowning when the bathroom door finally opened to release a wave of steamy air and Clint, who was scrubbing at his hair with a towel. The tight black pants and motorcycle boots were still present and so, unfortunately, was a lot of the glitter.

"How the fuck do you get this stuff off?" Clint complained, scrubbing madly at his hair and then his chest, turning the skin pink. "It doesn't clean, it just spreads. I've got glitter in places that glitter should never be."

"Thank you for that image," Phil said dryly. "You were going to explain why you're dressed like...well..."

"A ten dollar whore?" Clint supplied helpfully.

"I was going to go with classy hooker, but whatever you feel most comfortable identifying with," Phil said. "Is this a new type of bouncer chic I didn't know about?"

Clint gave his arms one last, irritated rub with the towel and threw it in the corner where it distributed glitter in a limp, damp puff of displaced air.

"Yeah, about that bouncer we had arrested," Clint said. "It turns out that one of the other bouncers knew a guy who knew a guy so the job was gone before I got there."

Phil started to get an idea about where the story was going.

"You needed someone in there and they were auditioning," Clint continued, "so I signed up."

"As a stripper."

"It's a strip club, so yeah." Clint grinned and made a sort of 'ta-da' shimmy. "Got the job, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Boss, we're in the wrong line of work," Clint said. "I made two hundred bucks in tips tonight."

"You actually stripped, on a stage, for money?" Phil asked, feeling a headache start at the thought of trying to write this mission up.

"Three times," Clint said proudly. "Turns out, I'm fucking awesome at it."

Phil felt he should probably be more surprised by that.

"So, if you were so good why are we being extracted in two hours?" Phil asked. "You just needed to be there as back-up for Natasha this time."

Clint rubbed the back of his neck. "Turns out, I'm a bit too good. The boss's boyfriend visited the dressing room after my second turn and made some interesting offers. Now, I could have done it - king and country and all that-"

"Barton, we don't have a king," Phil said, "and SHIELD isn't in the habit of asking their agents to prostitute themselves."

Waving away Phil's objections, Clint continued. "Well, it wasn't really a problem because the boss wasn't too pleased and he let one of the girls know that he wasn't too pleased and she let me know as I was going up for my third show. So I decided to skip out before anyone could get to the part where they tried to break my kneecaps. I figured that an out of luck but awesome stripper probably shouldn't know combat moves and I wasn't going to just let them break my kneecaps without a fight."

"Good thinking," Phil said faintly. “And the number of men chasing you was because..?”

Clint winced. “The boss’s boyfriend was very keen, I guess, and the boss is a jealous, jealous guy.”

It was definitely going to be one of those mission write-ups where Phil had to employ euphemisms and possibly outright obfuscation to maintain any credibility to Clint’s professionalism.

"Sir, do you actually need that jacket?" Clint asked after a pause.

The room was not particularly warm and Clint was starting to get goosebumps again. Phil took off his jacket and passed it over. On Clint, the jacket was a bit tight in the shoulders and slightly too long in the arms. Instead of adding an air of respectability, a feat that Phil feared was impossible right now, it added an extra air of depravity to Clint's overall appearance.

"Barton, the dry-cleaning for the glitter on that is coming out of your paycheck," Phil said, glad to hear his voice steady and clear rather than hoarse and broken as he had half-expected.

"Sorry, sir," Clint said. "You'll probably just have to expense a new one. I don't think the glitter comes off without industrial cleaners."

Phil sat down on the bed, which creaked alarmingly, and raised an eyebrow.

"I think that I'll stand," Clint said, flushing slightly. "These pants? Were not made for doing anything except a bit of bumping and wriggling before they come off. They’ve taken more abuse than they’re really designed for and I'm pretty sure they're not going to last much longer unless you’ve got a sewing kit on you."

"Standing sounds like a good idea, then," Phil agreed, taking out a notepad so that he could begin trying to word his report.

It was a long two hours waiting for the extraction team and the reports on the mission had to be classified by Fury himself.


	2. 2. That time Clint baked and Phil had to buy the ingredients

"I can explain," Clint said, "but I'm on a time-limit and I really need those supplies."

The phone went dead in Phil's ear and he pulled it away to look at it with faint bemusement for a moment. Over the years the line between handler and friend had become increasingly blurred but this was definitely the oddest off-duty request he had received yet.

Shrugging, Phil put the phone away and grabbed his keys.

***

An hour later he adjusted a bag of groceries on his hip and knocked at the door of Clint's apartment. It opened after a short wait and Phil blinked.

Clint was wearing a black apron that was liberally dusted with flour. As his jeans, t-shirt, hair and nose were also flour-coated the apron seemed like a moot point. There also appeared to be melted chocolate smeared on his cheek and right bicep.

Clint grinned and reached for one of the grocery bags. "Thanks for this, you're a life-saver. Possibly I mean that literally."

Phil followed him into the apartment, which was filled with the scent of sugar and chocolate. The kitchen looked like a tornado had hit it and Clint had to sweep three mixing bowls aside to find somewhere to put the grocery bags.

"What happened in here?" Phil asked as Clint started unpacking flour and sugar.

"It's your fault," Clint said.

"How is this," Phil's gesture encompassed the entire mess, "my fault?"

Clint lifted a carton of eggs and a huge package of chocolate chips out of a bag.

"Remember how you keep on at Natasha to make contact with people outside work, integrate with the world outside her, say hello to people in her building and all that shit?" Clint said, stretching to put the chocolate chips onto a high shelf.

"Yes," Phil said warily.

"Right, well she did," Clint said. "She said hi to the little old lady in the apartment opposite hers and somehow she ended up agreeing to provide stuff for a bake sale they're having. I have got to meet that old lady and find out her techniques. Can we recruit her?"

"Can Natasha bake?" Phil said, trying to remember whether it had ever appeared in her files.

Clint pointed towards his coffee table. "Try those and tell me. She claimed that they're scones."

A plate of round, flat things were sitting on the coffee table. Phil picked one up, taking in its unusual density and the strange grey tinge to it. He tried to break a piece off and decided that it was a good thing he had not bitten into it.

"We should take those to R&D," Clint said, "see if we can weaponize them."

Phil hefted the so-called scone. "I think it's a weapon already."

"Build a sling-shot for it and you're good to go," Clint agreed. "Perfect for those missions where we go undercover at bake sales."

"So, I take it that you're making things for Natasha to take to her bake sale," Phil said.

"Yeah," Clint said. "I need a couple of dozen scones, fifty cookies and a chocolate cake by six."

"Which is why you didn't have time to go to the grocery store for ingredients," Phil said.

"Exactly," Clint said. "I've got half the cookies done but then I ran out of butter. Thanks."

Phil looked at the kitchen, which was coated in flour and sugar and only seemed to have one clean bowl, and shrugged out of his jacket before rolling up his sleeves.

"Would it help if I washed up?" he asked.

Clint rubbed a hand through his hair, sending up a shower of flour, and nodded. "Seriously, Natasha owes you one for this."

As Clint started to measure flour, sugar and butter into the remaining clean bowl, Phil gathered up the dirty utensils and paraphernalia. He was unsure how so much mess could have been made by twenty-five cookies but as he could just barely manage the kind of cakes that came out of a box, he judged that Clint knew what he was doing.

"So, you bake?" Phil said, running water and soap into a bowl. "It's not in your file."

"Not all my talents are in my file," Clint said, doing something hideously complicated to the butter-sugar-flour mixture with a knife. "This isn't something I've ever found useful for our work."

"Neither was stripping," Phil said pointedly, "until it was."

"In my defence, I didn't know that it was a talent until I tried it," Clint said with a cheerful grin.

"Where did you learn to bake?"

Clint shrugged. "Here and there. It's one of those things, you know?"

"Not really."

"I don't get all crazy with it, I'm not about to open a coffee shop or anything," Clint said, "but it tastes better than that shit you get out of a mix."

Clint dusted off his hands, scattering flour and butter everywhere, and then rubbed his hand through his hair and swore when he realised that his hair was now coated in scone dough. He nudged Phil aside with his hip and washed his hands in the soapy water, muttering under his breath about milk.

It took most of the afternoon to construct all the scones, cookies and cake that Natasha needed. Phil mostly helped by washing things up, making coffee and sometimes tasting warm cookies fresh from the oven. It was a mystery to him, even after several hours, how Clint managed to get so much batter, dough and chocolate distributed over every surface including himself. He even manged to get chocolate frosting behind one ear and Phil chose not to examine too closely how he had spotted that.

The end result was that when Natasha called round just before six, the baked goods were cooled, packed and ready to go and the kitchen was starting to look less like a chocolaty war-zone. Her grateful expression told Phil exactly why Clint had worked so hard all afternoon. It was rare for Natasha to need to admit that she could not do something and he had a feeling that this was one of those things that she simply had no patience for learning.

"I'll make it up to you," Natasha said as she carried out the last box.

Clint waved it off. "It was no bother."

Natasha looked at the kitchen, which Phil was still in the process of cleaning, and Clint's filthy clothes, hair and skin. She raised an eyebrow.

"OK, next time you're paying for the pizza," Clint said.

"Deal," Natasha said.

The apartment felt quiet in a comfortable way as Clint helped Phil to restore some kind of order to the kitchen.

"You're invited the next time we get pizza," Clint said. "It's the least Natasha can do for your help."

Phil shrugged. "It wasn't that bad."

"Sir, I think you've got chocolate on your pants," Clint said. "That stuff is a bitch to get out."

"They're old," Phil said. "Not a problem."

Clint frowned with mock concern. "Are you feeling OK?"

"I suspect it's the sugar talking," Phil said with a grin.

"Right," Clint said slowly. "Thanks for the help."

Phil shrugged. "Really not a problem. I didn't have any plans and this was sort of fun, in an exhausting way."

"I could order some Chinese or something, if you're hungry," Clint said awkwardly.

"Another time, maybe," Phil said. "I've eaten far too much this afternoon already."

"Right, another time," Clint echoed.

The last sight that Phil had before the door closed behind him was Clint's surprised expression as he touched his hair and a blob of frosting lost its grip and fell to the floor.


	3. 3. That time with the collar and the goth club

"Boss, explain to me again why I'm wearing this?" Clint said.

Phil allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch. "As I recall, you were the one who told R&D that the throat mic could be concealed inside a studded collar. They just followed that train of thought to it's natural conclusion."

"Can we stop them doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Following my train of thought to conclusions."

It was possible that Clint had a valid point. While it was marginally less embarrassing and revealing than the stripper get-up, which Phil pointed out had been Clint's idea every time Clint reminded him about it, this outfit was not actually that much better. The tight black jeans, tight black and maroon t-shirt, heavy boots and dyed, spiky black hair were fairly provocative on their own.

Adding a studded collar and matching wrist-cuffs transformed it from a clubbing outfit into a potentially lethal weapon.

"I'll make a note of it in the mission report," Phil promised.

At that moment, the door to the second bedroom in their hotel suite opened and Natasha emerged looking surprisingly cheerful. Her costume consisted of a long, deep purple dress with a slit up the side that reached most of the way up her thigh and heavy boots. R&D had designed a collar that matched her regular wrist cuffs and belt, so it was probably dangerous, and Phil was certain that her elaborate hairstyle concealed at least three thin throwing knives. Deep red lips and heavily-lined eyes completed the goth look and she posed for a moment just because she could.

"Nat, you look amazing," Clint said.

Natasha eyed him critically and darted back into the bedroom, reappearing with a large cosmetics bag in hand a moment later.

"Oh no," Clint said firmly. "No make-up. Not this time."

"Are you afraid of a bit of eye-liner?" Natasha asked, smiling wickedly.

"I'm afraid you'll use the permanent stuff again," Clint said.

"I promise, you'll be fine," Natasha said sincerely.

“No.”

"Barton," Phil said, raising an eyebrow.

"Is it an order, sir?"

Phil rolled his eyes. "It's a choice. Let Natasha do it or I will."

Clint flipped him off and submitted with just the slightest of ridiculous pouts, allowing Natasha to carefully apply eye-liner after she demonstrated that it could be removed easily.

Phil had to swallow hard when the process was complete. Lethal weapon had been transformed into debauched lethal weapon and he was fairly sure that whatever else their marks had intended to do tonight, Clint and Natasha would have their full attention.

Natasha held out her hand for the car keys and Phil handed them over.

"Remember, I'll be just down the street," he said, "and we've got a back-up team a couple of minutes away as well."

Natasha shrugged. "Don't worry, we've got this covered. They won't even know that we have the information."

"You had to say it," Clint said.

"What?" Natasha said.

"Remember the last time you got optimistic about an information drop?"

"This will be nothing like Prague," she said confidently.

***

"This is exactly like Prague," said Clint over the comm.

"It's nothing like Prague," Natasha said, so quietly Phil was amazed her mic picked it up. "There aren't any grenade launchers."

"Yet," Clint said darkly.

Phil rolled his eyes and jogged down the alley, looking for the third street-level window along.

"You'll both be explaining how this happened later,” he said, "but right now, minds on the job please."

There were no guards out here and Phil had to remind himself that critiquing the bad guy's technique when it was allowing him to infiltrate their hostage situation was probably not in the spirit of the game. He found the window, knelt and tapped on it as he removed his jacket and shoulder rig. The window opened and Phil passed his gun and Clint’s bow case in before carefully sliding through the window head-first. There was a moment when something caught on his shirt, tearing it slightly, and then he was through and Clint was catching him before he could fall head-first into the sinks below.

Getting upright and onto his feet was an interesting maneuver that involved a far closer acquaintanceship with Clint's chest than Phil usually got. Not that he really minded and he was definitely ignoring that thought for now.

"Didn't they check in here?" Phil whispered as he stood up.

"Nobody ever looks up," Clint said softly.

"You just can't get the high quality criminals anymore," Phil said.

"Can we bitch about the intelligence of our enemies later and concentrate on killing them now?" Natasha asked.

"Disarming, Agent Romanov," Phil said. "This was supposed to be an intelligence gathering exercise so try to keep a few of them alive."

She muttered something softly in Russian.

"Language, Nat," Clint said. "We're not supposed to say fuck on open comms anymore, even in Russian."

"Remind me again why I'm your handler, Barton?" Phil asked, an idea starting to form.

"Fury's orders," Clint said.

***

Phil estimated that the odds of a resolution with blood-shed were not good, especially with Natasha among the hostages, but they had all been in worse spots and the gang members were not expecting SHIELD agents.

To be fair to them, most people don't expect SHIELD agents.

The gang had stationed two men in the corridor leading from the washrooms to the main club, so Phil’s estimation of their intelligence went up slightly, but they were all standing with their backs to the washroom doors so their intelligence levels were still not high. It barely took a moment for Phil and Clint to silently knock them unconscious.

Clint moved to the end of the corridor, an arrow nocked ready on his bow, and peered around the corner. He signed the count and position of the remaining gang members as Phil moved behind him and touched Clint’s shoulder to let him know that he was there.

“Walkway, sir,” Clint said, leaning in to speak quietly in Phil’s ear. “Two minutes.”

Phil nodded and watched as Clint slunk around the corner and disappeared. Even after years of watching him do this kind of thing, Phil could barely see the movement as Clint found the access and climbed up.

A mental clock was working in Phil’s head, counting down two minutes, and right on schedule an arrow thunked into the back of the armed man nearest Natasha. Two more arrows followed, taking out one gang member cleanly and lodging in the knee of another. Phil was only vaguely aware of his grin as he tossed two smoke grenades into the club.

The only unforeseen problem came when the smoke grenades set off the sprinklers, which rendered Natasha’s Widow’s sting unusable unless they wanted to electrocute a hundred innocent clubbers. She still managed to take out three men with minimal injuries and Phil took care of a couple more.

By the time Clint threw the last gang member off his walkway, everyone had lost their taste for hostage-taking. The end result was that when the back-up unit rushed in they found a pile of unconscious criminals, a lot of groggy goths and three soggy agents.

Clint's hair was plastered against his head, his t-shirt had become a second skin and his face was streaked with eye-liner. There was a thin trickle of blood where an elbow had caught his nose and one eye was starting to swell shut.

Phil groaned internally as he realised that he was torn between finding Clint an ice-pack and kissing the man senseless.


	4. 4. That time Clint questioned Fury’s orders

"Would you like to explain why you're objecting to this assignment?" Fury said, a dangerous note in his voice.

"Not objecting," Clint said quickly, "more...confused. You need me and Coulson in some rich-people-only parties to get information and you need us to pretend to be married. I'm just trying to understand."

Fury's smile held a faint hint of evilness. "Actually, Barton, I just need Coulson for this one. You'll be there as his cover due to the nature of the guest-list of those parties."

Phil had seen the files, he knew why they were doing this. It was, however, much easier and more entertaining to watch Nick Fury explain it than to take that job himself. Instead he concentrated on trying not to look at the little plastic bag on the desk that contained two plain gold rings. He had heard rumours about these kinds of mission. Half of them ended up in real marriages, the other half in standing orders never to let those agents serve together or even meet again.

Apparently it was the weeks in safe houses between public appearances that did it every time. All those evenings playing lovers with no release because they had to share a small house or apartment and stay out of contact with everyone they knew took some kind a toll. It tended to end explosively every time however you looked at it.

"I need eyes in there," Fury continued, "and you two are the lucky couple. These parties are Simmons' only weak spot."

"Isn't this more Natasha's area?" Clint asked.

"Hill and Romanov will be the primaries on this," Fury said. "You two are back-up."

"That doesn't really tell me why we're the ones going in," Clint said. "Sir."

"Barton, let's pretend that I'm your director and you do as I tell you," Fury said, that dangerous glint starting to appear in his eye. "Let's also pretend that I have the power to send you to a lonely station in Alaska with no shooting range if you continue to object. I could use any other agent for this one, but I'd prefer to have you in there."

"Sir, yes sir," Clint said. "I just-"

"Which part of Alaska did you not understand?"

"The part where you explained why us and why we got pulled off babysitting scientists for this, sir," Clint said promptly.

"Just put the damn rings on, get down to room 1215 for your gear and get out of my office," Fury said sharply. "Before I change my mind on Alaska."

***

Phil's tuxedo was a work of art. He owned one, of course, but SHIELD would never let an agent walk into an op with their own clothes. This one fitted beautifully and, most importantly, had a few extra features that even the most expensive of designer tuxedos would never feature.

How often did most people need to carry powerful sedatives concealed in their cuff-links, anyway?

He checked one more time in the mirror of his bedroom in the safe house, adjusted the tie slightly, and stared for a moment at the gold band on his left ring finger. It felt foreign and heavy there, nothing that he would have chosen even if he ever thought marriage was in his future, and it signified a thousand things that he was resolutely ignoring.

There was a knock at the door and Phil took a calming breath before he opened it. The air seemed to catch in his throat for a moment when he saw Clint for the first time.

Tuxedos suited him far better than Phil had ever imagined.

"Why the fuck do people wear these things voluntarily?" Clint complained. "This tie is trying to strangle me."

Phil assessed for a moment, spotted the issue, and raised an eyebrow.

"Mind if I-?" he asked, nodding towards the tightly knotted tie.

"You can't make it worse," Clint said. "Alaska is looking good right now."

"Remember the last time you were in Alaska?" Phil said absently, trying to achieve the impossible and get Clint's tie right without either touching his throat or accidentally asphyxiating the asset. "You complained for weeks."

"I got frostbite!" Clint said, shuddering. "Medical threatened to amputate my nose. You're right, Alaska isn't looking good anymore."

Warm, soft skin brushed Phil's fingers when Clint moved and he silently congratulated himself on his manual dexterity under pressure. Phil tweaked the tie one more time and stood back.

"Do I clean up OK?" Clint asked with a grin.

"Barton-"

"That's Clive tonight," Clint said. "Could they have found a dorkier name? Pete doesn't suit you, but at least it doesn't sound like you spend your free time cataloguing fruit flies or some crap like that."

"Clive?"

"Shut up?"

Not that it ever worked, Clint was bitching about the lack of grip on his dress shoes moments later and his litany of criticisms did not end until they were pulling up outside the glitzy hotel that was their target. Phil handed the keys to the valet and managed not to jump when Clint rested a hand on the small of his back as they entered the lobby.

There was a smug grin on Clint's face as they presented their tickets and were ushered to the ballroom.

"Warn me when you're going to do that," Phil said.

The hand disappeared from his back and a moment later he felt Clint's warm, callused hand on his and purely by reflect tangled their fingers together.

"Just getting into character," Clint said cheerfully.

Phil spotted Jake Simmons quickly. He was tall, blond and had that ageless look that could be anywhere between late twenties and early sixties although his file gave his age as forty-four. The files that Phil had studied provided photos of his current partner, a younger man called David Neil, and the other two men that they stood with appeared to be Simmons' right-hand man and his boyfriend. There were no bodyguards nearby and Phil understood quickly why Fury had identified this as one of the rare weak spots in Simmons' set-up.

For the next hour they mingled and worked the room. Phil spotted Natasha and Hill moving around, sometimes arm in arm, sometimes dancing slow and close and looking like nothing else in the world mattered. They made it look easy and if he had not known them for as long as he had, he would have sworn that they were in love. Even he could barely spot how cleverly Natasha guided their progress around the room, ensuring that she and Hill were never far from Simmons' group and definitely never so far away that the microphones hidden in her jewelry and hair would miss anything Simmons said.

It was a display of sheer artistry and Phil made a mental note to commend her when he wrote up his report.

What was more surprising was how good Clint was at this. Phil had half-expected to be doing most of the work, which would have been awkward, but Clint initiated everything. On the odd occasions when Clint and Natasha played the happy couple for an op, it was Natasha's skills that usually carried him.

Tonight was something new. Clint seemed to know exactly when they needed to be in contact and when to step back, allowing everything to seem natural. He smiled and laughed at the right times, calling Phil 'honey' every now and again with a smug evil grin that meant he knew exactly how much that irritated him and also implied that it was a private joke for their cover couple.

Phil ignored how good it felt when Clint squeezed his hand or leaned briefly against him.

The only thing that they could not seem to do was get within thirty feet of Simmons. Each time they managed to work nearer to him, the crowds seemed to pull them way. None of their gear would be able to pick out his conversations at that distance and there was definitely no way to get a tracer patch onto him. Natasha appeared to be the only one of the team getting anything and so far she had been unable to get close enough to do anything with her patch either.

Their luck changed when Simmons' partner gestured to the dance floor. Simmons smiled and nodded and moments later he was dancing slowly with his boyfriend, his eyes closed and a soft smile on his face. Apparently even international arms dealers trading in futuristic and terrifying ordinance could have their gentler moments.

"Pete, honey, they're playing our song," Clint said with that horrible grin. "Dance with me?"

"If you insist," Phil said, allowing a small smile to escape.

Of course Clint could dance beautifully. It should not have surprised Phil, but somehow he had expected that this would be one area where Clint would not be as competent. He even let Phil lead and Phil was careful not to look surprised when he felt Clint nuzzle against his neck.

"I've got the tracer ready to go, just steer us," Clint said, his voice slightly muffled and sending warm air brushing across Phil's throat. "How's Nat doing?"

A flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye alerted Phil to Natasha's location, which was close to Simmons and his boyfriend but still not close enough.

"She's trying," Phil said into Clint's hair, "but we're-"

He broke off as he heard three distinctive pop sounds that were definitely out of place here. Then the screams began and he closed his eyes as Clint started swearing, vicious and low, and the entire mission abruptly went to hell.

***

Three hours later, Phil sank down onto a soft chair in the small lounge that SHIELD had appropriated and surveyed the exhausted team. Junior agents were still clearing up the mess in the ballroom and hotel lobby but he was willing to concede that most of the important work had been done.

Hill and Natasha shared a sofa, slumping against each other with matching expressions of weary satisfaction. The skirt of Natasha's beautiful dark blue evening dress had been ripped up the side to allow her to run faster and Phil made a note to suggest in his report that an easy-tear seam be added to any of her future formal-wear. Most of the tech/jewelry had been surrendered to the analysts and her arms and face were covered in scratches from the fights. Hill looked a little less battered, but her red dress was coated in dirt and mud and she was cradling a tiny revolver in her lap as though afraid that someone might disappear with it.

In short, they looked pretty damn good for women who had captured two of the assassins while wearing heels and long evening gowns.

Phil knew that he looked a little less composed than he usually tried to appear, but the buttons on his tuxedo jacket had been sacrificed for the greater good. R&D were definitely getting a mention on his report for the efficacy of their miniaturised flash-bang grenades.

Clint was sitting on another sofa, head tipped back although Phil knew there was no way that he was sleeping. The top three buttons of Clint's shirt were unbuttoned, his tie hung around his neck and the knees of his pants were coated in mud from his roof-top chase of the final assassin in the team.

In short, Clint was proving that he could turn even the most formal of outfits into a walking advert for sex.

Phil pulled his mind away from that image and concentrated on the fact that their target and his boyfriend had been killed right in front of them and Fury was not going to be happy.

"There was no way to predict it," Clint said without looking up. "Boss, we were all there. Nothing looked weird, nobody stood out."

"There was no chatter," Hill added. "Nothing official or unofficial. Nobody was talking about a hit on Simmons."

"It had to be internal," Natasha said thoughtfully. "Nobody puts a hit out on someone like Simmons without word getting out somewhere."

Phil sighed tiredly. "I know."

"Fury's an evil bastard," Clint said, "but he wouldn't have sent us in unprepared."

"Well, I'd say we're done here," Hill said. "Time to call it a night."

"Debrief at eight tomorrow," Phil agreed.

There were quiet groans around the room but nobody objected out loud.

"Drive me home, boss?" Clint asked. "You've got the only car."

"We should-"

Hill fixed Phil with a stern look. "The paperwork can wait, Coulson. We're only going to get three hours sleep as it is."

"Fine, Barton," Phil said. "Just don't get mud on the seats, Fury will kill us."


	5. 5. That time Clint kissed Phil

When Phil woke up the first time he couldn't open his eyes but the bleeping of monitors nearby assured him that he was alive. That steady, annoying sound was unique to hospital wards and medical bays and people were only put there when they were not dead.

He drifted away again before thoughts could form properly.

The next time he woke, the painkillers must have been reduced because he was intensely aware of pain radiating through his chest. It made each breath agony and he was vaguely aware that the sound of the monitors was growing faster.

That must have alerted someone because a minute later he was aware of movement nearby and someone murmuring something just below the range of his hearing. Then the pain lessened and sleep overwhelmed him.

Waking was less painful the third time, a burning ache in Phil's chest that made breathing uncomfortable rather than almost impossible.

He lay with his eyes closed for a while, groggily picking out sounds and trying to focus. The annoying monitor beep was still there but somewhere nearby someone was also talking, the words too low for anything to stand out. It was Clint's voice, Phil realised after a while, and he strained to hear but the voice trailed off.

The bed next to him dipped and before Phil could say anything or indicate that he was awake, dry lips brushed gently against his.

The kiss was over in a moment and Phil knew that it had to be Clint, there was nobody else in the room, and he was too surprised to do anything.

A heartbeat later Phil sensed movement and then Clint was kissing him again, no longer tentative but firm and careful at the same time. Phil hardly dared to breathe and it was impossible to resist parting his lips slightly, tasting Clint and memorising every sensation in case it was the only time he got to do this. Warm breath ghosted across Phil's cheek and he was kissing back now, as slowly and carefully as Clint because the last thing he wanted was for this to end. Clint tasted of coffee and chocolate and something undefinable, a combination that Phil knew he would always associate with this moment.

Something must have alerted Clint because he suddenly went completely still.

Phil opened his eyes and met Clint's, the blue eyes only inches away so that he could see the "Oh shit" panic starting up close and personal. They stayed like that, frozen in place, for what could have been a moment or might have been forever.

Then Clint pulled back a little and said, "I can explain?"

He did not have time to say more because the door to the room was suddenly thrown open by the most inconveniently timed nurse in history and Clint was across the room in the far corner before Phil could blink.

"Agent Coulson, you've decided to join the waking world I see," the nurse said brightly. "How do you feel?"

Clint fled the room as a couple more nurses entered followed by a doctor and Phil silently fumed at the terrible timing.

There seemed to be a lot of unnecessary prodding, poking and pillow-fluffing for an interminable length of time and Phil was not alone when they left. Instead he was given into the tender care of Director Fury, who was never the person that anyone wanted to see in their hospital room.

"How did they do?" Phil asked, even though it was obvious to him how things must have turned out.

Fury scowled. "They got there when it counted. Loki is being dealt with and the Tesseract is no longer our problem."

Phil smiled. "Good."

"They did it in your name, you know," Fury continued.

"We knew they might need a push," Phil said.

"They got one," Fury said.

Phil shrugged, or at least tried to but the pain in his chest reminded him that it was not a good plan yet.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"Six days. The scepter broke some ribs and skewered your lung," Fury said. "Luckily it missed your heart by a fraction of a millimeter so the surgeons were able to put you back together almost as good as new. It might sting a bit for a while."

"Six days?" Phil exclaimed.

"There were some complications," Fury said. "They had to keep you sedated for a while."

"Oh."

"That was a stupid-ass move and I'm inclined to assign you to six months of paperwork in Alaska," Fury said. "I've heard it's a great location for convalescing."

"We don't have a station in Alaska."

"I'll build one," Fury said flatly.

"You really have a thing for Alaska," Phil muttered.

Apparently Fury's hearing was still uncannily good because his scowl deepened.

"Or there's another option," he said. "You know what I'm talking about, we've discussed it before."

"You honestly think they'd take orders from me?" Phil asked.

"I think they just fought a war for you," Fury said. "They'll listen to you before they listen to me or Hill."

Phil hesitated.

"They're also pretty angry with me," Fury said, "because they thought you were dead for a few days."

"Why would they-" Phil stopped, swallowed and said, "I thought that I was dying."

"You were wrong," Fury said. "For once. But it was a good idea and it worked."

Knowing Fury for a long time gave Phil a fairly good idea of how the man's brain operated, sometimes anyway, so he frowned.

"It took Stark how long to hack the system and find me?" he asked curiously.

"He was busy," Fury said. "Took him three days."

"Huh." Phil said. "If I agree to this, what happens next?"

"First, you do everything the medical staff tells you to do and that includes taking whatever this nurse is about to give you without complaining," Fury said. "And no, filling out reports at your desk will never count as rest, medical leave or convalescence. Then you'll do whatever it takes to get the Avengers to trust you enough to pretend to follow orders so that I can tell the World Security Council to get off my ass and fuck with someone else's day."

Phil was aware that he was getting tired and his chest was starting to ache fiercely, but that wasn't why he said, "Then I guess I'm the SHIELD liaison for the Avengers Initiative."

He didn't even say it because he was hopeful about whatever might be developing with Clint.

He said it because the idea of not seeing how the entire thing worked out left him with a cold, hard lump in his stomach and it was the opportunity of a lifetime.

***

Phil didn't see Clint again until the next morning, which might have been concerning but he slept through most of it and he was still feeling groggy when there was a quiet tap on his door. The door opened almost immediately and Clint looked in, appearing relieved when he saw that Phil was awake. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

"I guess you still want that explanation?" Clint asked.

"Your guess is correct," Phil said, even though this was one of the last places that he actually wanted to have this conversation.

He would have felt much better prepared for it with fewer wires and tubes threading his body and a suit instead of a hospital gown.

"So, I've been thinking," Clint said. "I've been thinking very carefully and what I’m thinking is that you kissed me back. Which means - you did know it was me, right?"

Phil smiled slightly. "I knew it was you."

"OK, so you knew it was me and you kissed me back," Clint said. "There was definitely participation on your side. Which I'm taking as a good sign."

"Good assessment," Phil said.

"So, here's the thing," Clint said. "I want to do it again. I've wanted to kiss you for a while. This isn't just because I thought you’d died and don't think you aren't going to be yelled at a lot for that, by the way. Nat's been practising."

"It's nice to know you all care," Phil said dryly.

Clint smiled, his first smile since he entered the room. "We do. I do."

A warm glow settled in Phil's chest and he was aware that his smile was a little goofy and hoped that Clint would put it down to the painkillers.

"So, I guess the question is whether you want me to kiss you again," Clint said, "because while I'm apparently not above kissing you when you're unconscious, I think-"

"Barton?" Phil cleared his throat and tried again. "Clint?"

It was interesting to watch the happiness flood Clint's face. "Shut up?"

"Get over here."

Their third kiss was definitely much better with full participation from both parties.


	6. +1. That time when Clint made breakfast

Phil woke with his alarm clock and spent a while just lying in bed, enjoying the soft mattress and crisp sheets. Even though it was four weeks since he had finally been released from medical, the memory of the hard bed and plasticised hospital sheets still sometimes haunted him.

By the end of week two trapped in hospital, he had begun to feel sympathy for Clint's regular attempts to check himself out of medical long before he was well enough. Not that he planned to ever let Clint do it, but he definitely understood it better.

This bed was a ridiculously sinful one, far more luxurious than the one in his old apartment, and it was just one of the over-the-top improvements that Stark had made during his renovation of Stark Tower. Phil was still not quite sure how he had been talked into moving into the tower, but he suspected that it had a lot do with Clint's reaction to the massive shooting range that Stark had installed on Clint's floor.

It was definitely not due to Clint whispering lewd promises about all the things they could do if they were only a convenient elevator ride away from each other every night. At least that's what Phil told himself and he was definitely going to resist temptation better in the future or who knew what he might agree to next.

Thinking of temptation brought a knock at the door and a moment later it opened to admit Clint carrying a large tray. The scent of bacon and fresh coffee wafted appealingly from the tray and Phil's stomach growled.

Clint grinned and kicked the door shut behind him before moving to stand beside the bed. It took Phil longer than he liked to sit up and arrange the pillows and cushions behind him. His arm was still weak and certain movements made healing muscles pull and twinge uncomfortably. The doctors had warned him that he had a lot of physio in his future.

When he was sitting more or less upright, Clint placed the tray on its little legs across Phil's lap, stealing a quick chaste kiss as he did so.

"Morning," Clint said cheerfully.

Phil smiled, grabbed him behind the neck and pulled him into a proper kiss where he could taste the minty toothpaste that Clint used.

"It is indeed morning," Phil said when they parted.

Clint swatted at him and moved away, muttering under his breath about smart-asses. He went to the windows and swept open the curtains, which gave Phil plenty of time to admire the way that Clint's ratty old sleeveless t-shirt was just a tiny bit too tight and his boxers left his muscular legs on display. Finally doing whatever it was they were doing had some great benefits, such as license to look at Clint whenever he wanted with no shame at all.

Not that Phil had ever felt any shame in particular, but he did feel slightly disappointed that the stripper incident had happened so long ago. He would definitely have liked to look at that properly for a while.

"Penny for them," Clint said as he carefully slid onto the bed and scooted next to Phil without making the coffee slosh.

There were two plates on the tray loaded with blueberry pancakes and bacon, two large mugs of coffee and a bottle of maple syrup that Clint used to drown his breakfast before digging in.

Phil was slightly less extravagant in his syrup usage, which if he was being thoughtful probably said a lot about both of them.

"How did you get this past Stark?" he asked curiously.

The pancakes were amazing, as always. Another benefit to the whatever they were doing.

Clint rolled his eyes. "I didn't. He got the ones that ended up weird shapes. The man has some kind of weird sixth sense for people cooking."

Phil chuckled. "Am I going to get this kind of treatment regularly?"

Snagging a piece of bacon from Phil's plate, Clint pretended to think for a minute. "Only on the days when medical is going to clear you for fucking. So, yeah, maybe."

"They're clearing me for desk work and light physical activity," Phil corrected. "If I pass."

"And that includes sex," Clint said. "I read the notes, I remember that bit."

"You're feeding me up for sex," Phil said.

"Fuck yes," Clint said. "Can't have you getting low blood sugar or something at crucial a moment."

"I'll be on light physical activity only," Phil reminded him.

Clint gave him the filthiest grin in the history of Clint's filthy grins. "I can work with that."

"I'm starting to wonder whether you want me for anything except sex," Phil complained.

"Your sparkling personality and dry wit were somewhere on my list," Clint said lightly, "but obviously I'm mostly in this for your body and I’ve been very patient so I’m ready for my reward."

"Do I need to remind you that you were the one who wanted to wait until I got cleared?" Phil asked. "I didn't need to-"

He broke off as Clint kissed him, fierce and intense and needy. It was an awkward position and Phil automatically put his hands on Clint's arm and chest to steady him. He could feel the muscles move and flex under Clint's warm skin, a sensation that Phil would never get tired of. Clint's low groan was intoxicating and Phil's heart hammered in his chest.

After a long, breathless moment Clint drew back, his lips wet and red. "I waited a long time for this. First time, it's both of us together or we don't...I don't want to be the only one. That's what I promised myself."

The words verged on incoherent but Phil understood. He moved a hand from Clint's arm, reaching up to trace Clint's jaw lightly with one finger.

"Seven weeks isn't that long," he said quietly, knowing that wasn't what Clint meant.

The kiss was quick and punishing, over before Phil could respond, and then Clint was sitting down again and neatly cutting up his final pancake.

They ate in silence for a while and Phil was enjoying the last of his coffee when Clint said, "I've been thinking."

"It had to happen one day," Phil said.

Clint grinned. "I've been thinking. They're clearing you for desk work and light physical activity, right? Well, we could combine-"

"I am not fucking you on my desk," Phil said.

"I wasn't talking about your office on the helicarrier," Clint said.

"This time."

"I read the rules, you put "No sex on SHIELD property" at number one. I remember that and I'm very good at following rules."

Phil gave him an incredulous look.

"The ones I agree with, anyway," Clint admitted, "and I agree with that one. I don't even want to think about Fury catching us."

It was a sufficiently horrible thought that Phil had already used it a couple of times to calm things down when they were getting dangerously close to disobeying medical's no excitement edict.

"You do have a desk in your office here, though," Clint continued happily. "It's Stark property, so no rules broken, and I've got the security codes for the cameras."

Phil hesitated for just a fraction of a moment and said, "No."

The hesitation had been just enough, though, and Phil would swear to his dying day that it had not been deliberate.

"Ha, there is room to negotiate on the desk sex!" Clint crowed with what was definitely far too much enthusiasm.

***

Several hours of painful testing and poking in medical followed by a couple of hours going through his in-boxes left Phil feeling like a wrung-out dishrag by the time he got back to the tower. He had eventually stuffed a dozen files into a box to bring them back so that he could work on them over the weekend and he already had a feeling that Clint was going to be giving him shit about that.

It was something Clint would have to learn to live with, Phil reflected as he dumped the box on a the kitchen table. Someone in the Tower had recently made coffee and Phil poured himself a large mug before rooting in the fridge for something to eat. He found an apple and some little prepacked cheese blocks in the salad crisper and made a mental note to put something onto the agenda of the next team meeting about appropriate food storage.

"Coulson!"

Phil closed the fridge door and turned around, keeping his face as impassive as he could just because it drove Stark insane every time he crept up and failed to startle him.

"Can you explain why I caught Barton moving a bunch of boxes down to your floor?" Stark asked, his eyes locked on the coffee pot.

"Not yet," Phil said, putting the apple and cheese into his pocket and balancing his mug on the box of folders.

"I'm billing SHIELD every time you try that and drop the coffee," Stark said. "Just so you know."

Feeling contrary, Phil picked up the box and carried it one-handed to the elevator without spilling a drop.

"You are freakish when you do that," Stark called as the elevator doors closed.

Phil's bedroom door was ajar, which wasn't how he had left it, so he pushed it open and smiled when he saw Clint sprawled on the bed with a book open on his chest. Clint was asleep, one arm thrown over his eyes, and the hem of his t-shirt had crept up to leave a wide band of stomach on show above the waistband of his jeans. The book was one of the Tom Clancy books that Clint took great joy in mocking aloud as he read and Phil noticed that a small stack of similar books were now piled on one of the bedside tables.

In fact, as Phil looked around more he realised what Stark had been talking about. Clint's favourite bow case sat in one corner of the room, his kit for fletching arrows perched on top, and one drawer had been artfully left half-open so that Phil could see the jeans, t-shirts and socks inside that were definitely not his.

Phil cleared his throat and Clint startled awake, half-sitting before realising who was in the room and flopping back to the bed. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the box in Phil's arms.

"I know that we talked about desk sex," Clint said, "but it wasn't because I was hoping you'd be so busy with paperwork that desk sex would be the only sex in this relationship."

Phil set the box down on the floor, picked up the coffee mug and sat down on the bed next to Clint.

"It can wait," he said.

Clint smiled. "I might have moved some stuff down here."

"I noticed."

"I can explain," Clint offered.

Phil finished the last of his coffee, put the mug onto the floor and said, "I got it."

Then he placed one hand on Clint's bare stomach, feeling the muscles twitch under his fingers, and leaned down to kiss Clint senseless. Among other things.


End file.
